


If it lands on tails, I'm bringing them hell

by caravanslost



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, trigger warning: transfer rumours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 02:44:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2371586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caravanslost/pseuds/caravanslost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Marco doesn't know what to do, he flips a coin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If it lands on tails, I'm bringing them hell

**Author's Note:**

> [Title taken from Tinchy Stryder's "Warning"]
> 
> Idk, let's call this my way of dealing with the tidal wave of transfer rumours about Marco from the last week.
> 
> This is my first fic for the Football RPF fandom. I hope it's okay - and as ever, concrit is encouraged and welcome!
> 
> I hope you enjoy it <3

Marco was just a little bit tipsy. He was close enough to sobriety to speak well, but there was just enough alcohol in his blood to affect his behaviour. Just a little.

Mario wasn't about to judge. Three bottles of beer were on the floor at his feet as well, although he hadn't opened one yet. His Macbook was perched on the coffee table in front of him, and the image of Marco on Skype hovered a few feet away. Marco had called him first thing that morning, asking to talk later that night, and more importantly, asking to see him. This was as close as they could manage, given the circumstances.

For the fifth or sixth time in the ten minutes that they had been speaking, Marco ran a hand through his hair. The perfect architecture of his blonde locks had already been ruined. That Marco didn't seem to notice or care was Mario's strongest indication that things weren't okay. Marco sighed. He looked into the webcam wearily.

“I don't know what to do.”

Mario shrugged. He knew what he ought to say, and he also knew that it would not give Marco the comfort he sought.

“It's a big decision. It was never going to be easy. You knew that, surely.”

“The papers seem to think it's easy. I wish I was as certain as they were.”

“Which one? Every single one of them is saying something different.”

Marco ran another hand through his hair, and took a long drag from his bottle of beer. After a few moments of silence, he reached for something out of the camera's line of vision.

Mario's gut dropped the moment he saw a coin balanced perfectly on the side of Marco's hand, over his index finger. His thumb was perched just underneath the coin's rim.

“No. Marco. No.”

“Yes.” Marco answered. “Pick a side.”

“ _No_.”

“Why not?”

“Because you're an idiot. This is the going to be the biggest decision of your career so far, and you're going to let a coin toss make it for you?”

There were many things that Mario had never understood about Marco, but this was the biggest one.

The first time he had encountered the habit, years ago, they had been deciding where to go for dinner. Mario was so famished that he couldn't care less where they ate, but Marco couldn't decide between Italian and Chinese. Mario didn't think anything when Marco took a coin out of his wallet, tossed it in the air, and then declared that they would go for pizza. He didn't think anything either when, two weeks later, Marco took a coin out and tossed it while they were trying to pick between two movies. However, Mario soon realized that this behaviour was a habit rather than an exception, and that Marco relied on coins almost as much as he relied on his own good sense.

It took Mario much longer to figure out that Marco always, _always_ used the same coin. One night, as the bus drove everyone back to Dortmund, and with everyone around them fast asleep, Marco explained that he had found the coin when he was younger. It was worth 50 Pfennigs, and he couldn't remember the exact details of how it came to be in his possession. He suspected that he had probably found it lying somewhere around the house, no doubt left there absentmindedly by his parents or sisters. He took it thinking that no one would notice or care, and no one did.

Marco told Mario that he had probably been under ten years old, at an age when even the smallest coin was something to be cherished and hoarded, like the first step to a personal fortune. He had never once lost it, and he began tossing it when he was fifteen.

A lot of people found the habit endearing. It drove Mario to his wit's end.

Marco insisted that it saved time. He reasoned that if he couldn't quickly make up his mind when faced with a decision, there probably wasn't much difference between the good and the bad sides of either option. Marco also insisted that sometimes, right before the coin landed and he looked at it, he figured out what side of the coin he wanted to see. Mario didn't believe either explanation, as touching as both were. He didn't believe the first because Marco had a tendency for recklessness. He didn't believe the second because he knew that Marco never deviated from what the coin advised him to do.

“I can't decide, Mario. I can't.”

Mario resolved that the next time he saw Marco, he would take the coin and throw it down the nearest drain.

“So take a week to think about it. Take a month, if you have to – but put that fucking coin _down_.”

“Heads, I stay at Dortmund. Tails, I move to Barcelona.”

“You don't even know if Barcelona want you.”

Marco gave Mario the driest look he could muster. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. He could presume that they did. Mario knew it, too.

“You're such an arrogant shit, Reus. Fine. Toss the fucking coin.”

Marco flipped the coin in the air and brought it down on the back of his left hand. It lay securely under the palm of his right hand. He looked at Mario expectantly.

“Ready?”

“No. Of course not. This is the worst idea you've ever had.”

Marco lifted his hand off the coin. He remained silent for a few moments before quietly saying “Heads.”

Mario hadn't even realized that he had been holding his breath. Relief coursed through his veins as oxygen found its way back to his lungs. He tried to gauge Marco's reaction, but he could read nothing in his face.

And in any case, Mario's respite lasted for all of three seconds before Marco balanced the coin on his hand again.

“Heads, I stay at Dortmund. Tails, I move to Manchester United.”

“No. No no no. _No_. Marco. Stop.”

Marco ignored him, flipped the coin, and trapped it under his palm once more. This time, he didn't wait before looking at it.

“Heads.”

Mario covered his eyes with his hands. He was scared because he knew Marco took that coin more seriously than he took almost everything else in his life.

“You've lost your mind. Enough.”

“Heads, I stay at Dortmund. Tails, I move to Real Madrid.”

“Just explain to me one thing. Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Partly because I can't decide. Partly because I'm getting a kick out of your reactions.”

“Oh, is that it? You're gambling with your future so you can have fun at my expense?”

“Looks like I am.”

“You're an asshole.”

For the first time that evening, Marco cracked something that looked like a smile.

“What, you're just figuring this out now?”

“You're not seriously going to keep going, are you?”

Marco responded by flipping the coin in the air. It flew higher than the two previous times, but he still caught it without batting an eyelid, his reflexes conditioned by years of practice.

It landed on heads.

Marco tossed the coin twice more – once for Arsenal, and once for Juventus. Both times, again, it landed on heads.

At that point, Mario excused himself for a moment and went to pour himself a glass of something strong. Beer wouldn't get him through the rest of the conversation at this rate. Whiskey might.

When Mario returned to his seat on the sofa, Marco told him that he had written down a list of ten other clubs that he wanted to toss for. Mario reacted to the news by knocking back half of his drink in one go and telling Marco to get it over and done with.

Mario's throat burned. He had never been good at drinking the stronger stuff, and he knew that he'd be a wreck at training tomorrow. Pep, who had the sharp senses of a bloodhound where these things were concerned, would no doubt recognize his hangover for what it was within moments. And Pep would probably skin him alive in front of the others to set an example. But at the moment, Mario didn't care. Pep's worst punishment would be easier then this.

Marco landed heads when he tossed for Paris Saint-Germain and Liverpool.

He landed heads when he tossed for Chelsea, Atletico Madrid, and Manchester City as well.

“This makes no sense.” Marco observed. “This literally and statistically makes no sense.”

But he kept tossing anyway.

For each new team name that Marco announced, Mario gave a dozen reasons why the move would be a bad one. Marco listened but he didn't seem to care. By the seventh toss, Mario had poured himself a second drink. By the ninth, he had drained it.

The tenth team was Sydney FC. Upon hearing the team, Mario reached for the nearest cushion and buried his face in it.

“You've lost your mind. You've actually lost your mind.”

“Australia's nice. I've heard it's a good place to live.”

“Not with _your_ complexion, you fool.”

Marco ignored him, and tossed the coin in the air. For the few moments before it landed, Mario contemplated the prospect of Marco moving to the other side of the world, quite literally, and a feeling of nausea washed over him that had nothing to do with whiskey.

After a few seconds, Marco said “heads.”

Mario sighed. He cast the cushion aside, pressed his lips together, and fixed Marco with a severe look.

“Okay, you've done your ten and then some. Put the coin down. Or better yet, do me a favour and go throw it out the window.”

Marco looked like he was on the verge of saying something, but he stopped. He didn't meet Mario's eyes at first, but when he did, Mario knew that trouble was coming.

“One more toss.”

“ _No_.”

“You might like this one.”

“Marco, _please_.”

Except Mario could see that Marco had that look in his eyes. That look of calm resolve that made his steely eyes seem darker than they were. Mario knew that he could try reasoning with Marco till the following morning without success, so he kept quiet instead. Marco's stubborn streak had a bad habit of feasting on the well-intentioned advice of others.

“Heads,” Marco began quietly, “I stay at Dortmund.”

“And tails?”

“Tails, I move to Bayern.”

Mario froze. Marco watched him, expression entirely neutral.

It took Mario a while to collect himself. It took him a little while longer to think of what he wanted to say, and even then, he needed a few seconds more before he could string a sentence together, out loud. Mario could barely think over the sound of his heart thumping against his chest.

“You're – are you kidding?”

“No, I'm not.”

“Marco, they'll – people would riot.”

Mario paused for a  little while further, because his mind was already running away with the possibilities. His breath constricted at the  mere  prospect of Marco being a daily fixture in his life again, like he used to be. The thought – just the  _thought_ –  did something to him.

“Let them.” Marco replied dismissively. “Since when have I cared what people think of me?”

“Don't play with me, Marco. Not like this. Not about this.”

Marco laced the coin between his fingers with all the ease of a street magician. The repetitive movement came naturally to him after so much practice. He eventually caught it between his thumb and forefinger and raised it for Mario to see.

“Have I ever been kidding when this is in my hand?”

“No.”

“And I'm not kidding now. Heads, I stay at Dortmund. Tails, I move to Bayern.”

Mario leaned back  against the couch and ran a hand through his hair,  h ope and dread tangled in his chest.  Marco was dangling everything Mario  had left behind in Dortmund  in front of his eyes –  everything he  had thought about and yearned for while lying in his bed in Munich,  every night .

And  Marco had chained  the intoxicating possibility to a stupid coin,  and the mercy of statistics.

“Wait.” Mario cautioned him. “Just wait. Before you flip the coin.”

“Oh? So now you're okay with me flipping it?”

“I know better than to think I can stop you.”

Marco smiled without a trace of humour.

“So you've finally learned.”

“Are you telling me that if that coin lands on tails, you'll come here? With me?”

“Yes.”

“And if it lands on heads?”

“Then I won't."

“Why can't you just reason through this decision like normal people?”

“I thought you'd be happy that I was even contemplating a move to Bayern.”

“I'm too shocked to feel anything other than _shock_.”

Marco paused for a moment and regarded Mario, his face a blank slate. Mario,  on the other hand, had never been  quite  as good at hiding his emotions. He was sure that every  part of his apprehension was  written all over his face.

“There's a fifty per cent chance that I'll move,” Marco pointed out.

“And a fifty per cent chance that you won't.”

Mario wanted to talk about it. He wanted nothing more than to talk about it. If they talked, he could try to reason with Marco about what he ought to do. He didn't fancy his chances, but at least he could try.

Comparatively, Mario couldn't reason with a coin about the side on which it ought to fall.

“Have you been thinking about this for a while?” Mario asked tentatively.

“No.”

“When did the thought first cross your mind?”

“Three seconds before I suggested it. Maybe four.”

“So stop, and think. What if it lands on tails? What are you going to say to Kloppo? That you're going to Bayern because a piece of copper told you so? He'll kill you. And then he'll kill me for not stopping you.”

“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“We can't cross bridges if we're dead, Marco.”

Marco flipped the coin and Mario closed his eyes, a pool of dread collecting in his stomach. He wanted to know the result as much as he didn't. The possibility of having Marco near him again tormented him as much as the possibility of continuing to have him five hours away.

Marco caught the coin, checked it, and looked back up at Mario.

“What do you think it landed on?” He said.

“I don't know. Fuck you. Just tell me.”

“Heads,” Marco answered, and his face was blank.

Mario could have wept. He wanted to, but he didn't.

Instead, he said: “That makes what – thirteen, fourteen heads in a row? Maybe it's a sign. Maybe you should stay at Dortmund.”

And as soon as Mario said it, he regretted it, because he knew what was coming next.

“Maybe you should have stayed at Dortmund, too.”

“Maybe now's not the right time to talk about it.”

“Apparently, it's never the right time to talk about it.”

“Are you going to keep tossing?” Mario asked, desperate to change the subject.

“Maybe.”

Mario paused before asking his next question, and did his best keep all hope out of his voice.

“Do you think – would you toss for Bayern again?”

“No.”

 


End file.
